Saturday, 6 April 2013


She paints a pretty picture,
But the picture has a twist.
Her paintbrush was a razor,
Her canvas was her wrist.

She paints a pretty picture,
In a colour that's blood red,
While using her sharp paintbrush,
She ends up, finally, dead.

Her pretty picture's fading,
Quite slowly on her arm.
The blood's no longer flowing,
She can no longer do harm.

She painted a pretty picture,
But her picture had a twist.
Her mind was her razor,
And her heart was her wrist.


  1. *hugs tight* A beautiful and tragic poem. I feel it in my heart and it rings truth for how I feel. There is no relief save for friends like you and others. Love you BB. Miss you too. It's good to read one of your poems again.

  2. Stomach-twistingly beautiful. I'm speechless beyond that.